


The Queen in Sable

by ATMachine (orphan_account)



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-09
Updated: 2016-11-09
Packaged: 2018-08-30 00:23:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8511598
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ATMachine
Summary: Thuringwethil's armor is not made solely of steel.





	

Thuringwethil tightened the straps that fastened her polains to her greaves of black steel, then reached for the cuisses that would cover her thighs. She was not looking forward to the upcoming battle; old and weak as she was in this ancient body, it was not inconceivable that she might actually lose to the upstart chieftains camped about her walls.

The Man would be easy enough to subdue; she could kill him without breaking a sweat, or else sway him to her will with a wave of her finger. Then he and that upstart realm he claimed the lordship of – what was its name? Ondor? Gondor? – would be hers for the taking, with hardly anyone the wiser.

But first she had to deal with the Elf.

_Gil-galad_ , they called him. “Star-light.”

She wondered how many of his soldiers would still serve him if they knew the truth about his birth, knew how a drunken Orodreth had been shoved into bed with Thingol of Doriath’s unwilling daughter, kidnapped by Celegorm and Curufin for their twisted pleasure. Knew that Ereinion Gil-galad, High King of the Noldor, was a bastard gotten on Luthien Tinuviel by rape and deceit. A pretender who kept his parentage in deliberate obscurity, with as much rightful claim to the throne of Finwë as the eldest captains in his army themselves might have.

The irony of his _ëpessë_ was enough to turn her stomach.

She would enjoy killing him, however hard the battle. She wondered how she should do it – prick him slowly to death with his own spear, perhaps, or maybe tear his limbs one by one from his body? On the other hand, it might be better to get it over with quickly. Burn him alive with her bare hands, use her fire magic to turn him into a charred corpse in under a minute. He would, after all, make a formidable opponent for anyone else.

She remembered still the day when his mother threw down the walls of Taur-nu-Fuin with her singing and her magic, slew the prize werewolf of her breeding pit with an Elvish hellhound of her own, left her in the ruins of her fallen stronghold to crawl back to Angband naked and bleeding.

And, though she hated admitting it, _afraid_.

She would never be afraid again, she had vowed, crawling in the dust that had once been a mighty fortress. She would never again let herself be brought so low, on her knees, begging for mercy. Not though Elves or Men or Gods should demand it of her.

Thus she did not obey the summons of the Valar when Thangorodrim fell, offering pardon to all of Morgoth’s vassals who surrendered themselves and sued for clemency. Instead she hid herself in the dark forests of Middle-earth, and bided her time, slowly gathering armies and weapons of war. Her schemes had worked, for a time, and her dominion waxed; and under her rule the skies grew grey with the smoke of forges’ fires, and blood-colored lights glowered on the eastern horizon of Middle-earth.

But now this _rabble_ was encamped before her very seat, choking off its supplies. Orcs were bloodthirsty warriors, the more so when they were starving. But they could fight only if they had strength enough to stand. Even that was not now possible thanks to this infernal blockade.

And so, when the summons for a challenge came, she could not refuse.

But she would not get down on her knees again. That time was past.

She would win the battle, whether by force or by fraud – in which case life continued as usual – or else her body would be slain – from her perspective an inconvenience, but little more.

Either way, she would still bend her knee to no man.

Thuringwethil, Mistress of Vampires, finished tying on her sword-belt, and donned her helmet, and descended the winding stair down from her chambers in the topmost tower of her black-walled stronghold.

And shortly Sauron the Necromancer, Lord of the Dark Tower of Barad-dûr, clad in black armor from head to foot, stepped out of the gate of that terrible citadel, to face the two leaders of the Last Alliance.

**Author's Note:**

> A little ficlet that burrowed itself into my brain and wouldn't go away until I wrote it down.
> 
> N.B.: The description of Sauron's armor is inspired by Tolkien's translation of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.
> 
> For what it's worth, I am convinced that Sauron/Thu being Thuringwethil's public outwardly-male persona is something that Tolkien himself thought up as a secret headcanon for his private amusement. After all, Sauron *does* enslave people with a Ring. XD
> 
> And at the very least, Tolkien was interested in gender fluidity: his c. 1917 Elvish dictionaries, for instance, mention that "gwegwin" ("man-woman") is Gnomish for "hermaphrodite"...


End file.
